


Puritas Vincit

by disillusionist9



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Slash, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:11:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7685842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disillusionist9/pseuds/disillusionist9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Purity conquers. Draco needed a wife to further improve his standing among the pureblood society, and her family history was nearly flawless. But, cheated from the promise of an heir, Astoria turns to alternate methods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

Astoria Malfoy née Greengrass found herself strapped within bolts of taffeta, lace, and silk, with a new husband wholly unwilling to divest her of the cloud of white.

_An agreeable arrangement_ her parents assured her.

_Your best match, the purest match_. Her sister knew what purity meant to her, and worked to encourage the match. Daphne could never know what Draco was.

An agreeable arrangement, indeed. Agreeable for whom? Certainly not for her. Not while she rested steadfastly at her vanity, held together by thousands of yards of hand spun fabric, threaded like the fingers of a lover around her body. Complete mental and emotional fatigue bubbled in her abdomen behind walls of white, without a single drop of misery reaching her rosy cheeks.

Astoria was certain she'd heard of a term for what she was now, and it did not fall in the same category as "blissfully wedded wife" or a "bedded wife."

"Tory."

The whale bones in her corset were not as stiff as her spine. "Draco, I've asked you not to call me that."

Her husband cleared his throat. Twice. Rested his hand on her shoulder.

"I was certain you'd known before...before all of the arrangements."

Laughter left her throat involuntarily. The sound reminded her that the same church bells that rang in the village for weddings were the ones used for funerals.

"And revoke my right to a chance at a life with you, my husband, and an heir?"

"Surely, my mother-"

"Obviously not," she snapped. Regaining her composure before looking up into the mirror, she met Draco's gaze, unwavering.

He still wore the full dress robe regalia from the ceremony, bits of flower petals and pixie dust caught in the lapel, and the glint of a silver band on his left hand glittering in the firelight. Snow fell gently outside. Astoria wished it would erupt into the predicted blizzard already, so she wouldn't be the only one losing control.

What good would an emotional outburst be now, the ring fresh on her finger, barely warmed to her flesh after the cold air outside? White filled the edges of her vision: the snow, her dress, Draco's roses, the whites of her eyes slowly turning pink from the force of holding back tears. Anger, white hot against the walls of her stomach, choking her as it flowed up through her throat, she allowed herself a hearty swallow.

Without a word, she stood from the vanity. She did not turn to Draco, moving to the second set of doors in the honeymoon suite, the rooms furthest from the main house of Malfoy Manor. Their Portkey to Madagascar would leave in ten hours and she felt time slipping away through her fingers. The doors locked behind her before the first sob escaped her.

Astoria watched the lacquer melt from the wood of the chair near the bed, as she burned it wandlessly from the inside out. With any luck, the toxic fumes would suffocate her before she had to face her family, or her husband. A part of her mind knew the chair was likely invaluable, but a chair was replaceable with magic.

As if she'd heard the scraping of shoes over floorboards, the thought caught her attention. She lowered her hand to release the _incendio_. Without the power behind it, the legs of the chair hardened to charcoal, a trap for the next person who dared sit down.

_Valuable, but replaceable_. Just like her.

Like hell, if she had anything to say about it.

Draco needed a wife to further improve his standing among the pureblood society, and her family history was nearly flawless. She was young enough to not merit a trial after the war. Beautiful. Politically groomed. The bastard should feel lucky to have her.

Several strands of her hair drifted away from the rest of the curls woven atop her head, floating past her face, as slow as dust motes through the air. As she watched them fall, she noticed the tell of a slight breeze through the air. The movement was light enough she couldn't feel anything beneath the sleeves of her dress, charmed against the brisk air outside during the ceremony. The slight pull of the strands against her scalp, the fine hairs catching in her eyelashes, sticking in the gum of mascara.

Sitting perfectly still, she tried to locate the source. There. Near the trumeau mirror.

_Damn drafty old Manor,_ she thought uncharitably.

Moonlight glowed along the snowy lawns outside of the windows, and she wished the storm would begin already. The cold against her hand alerted her she'd moved without thinking, standing to look out the artfully frosted panes, the winter faerie lights from their wedding winking out one by one as the midnight hour approached. She moved her hand away quickly, her already chilled fingers losing feeling at the tips.

A few soft raps at the door broke the relative solace of the room. "Astoria?" Draco's voice was muffled, but markedly solemn. His yelp as her stinging hex hit his foot beneath the door gave her a bit of satisfaction. Reacting with violence was more her sister's forte than Astoria's, but she understood Daphne's inclination to it. But, pure Ministry record or not, they still threw witches and wizards alike in Azkaban for murder. Stinging hexes would have to suffice.

Astoria listened from her stance by the pier glass and windows, wand forgotten within the sleeves of the voluminous dress. The cold receded just enough from her fingertips that feeling returned. She could feel the pull of the draft again, and her hand wandered to find the source. The cool feeling of dry sand brushed across her hand, her full attention drawn to what appeared to be a missing appendage...but she could still feel it.

Her left hand sunk into the mirror between two ceiling-high windows, disappearing up past her wrist. Against her first instinct, she moved her fingers, and watched ripples appear over the surface of the mirror, distorting her from bride to spectre.

Astoria continued to move her hand around in wonder, until a hand and a sharp yank pulled her through the looking glass.


	2. Part II

Tom Riddle was neither a desparate or careless man.

Abraxas was careful to not react when his Lord extended a hand his direction, asking what seemed impossible, and watched with growing anticipation as each digit curled in with sweet satisfaction, grasping the sleeve of his robes.

"My Lord..." Abraxas huffed, lips parted.

Those ghostly fingers stilled against him and he mourned the sudden loss of touch. The falter was momentary, and he dared to glance up at his Master's face. Strong dark brows swept over eyes he'd become a willing servant to. The hand not grasping his arm raised to his mouth, resting there to silence him.

"I'll not have you speak before the appropriate time, dear Abraxas." His voice slipped between the buttons of his jacket, pooling into the recesses of his pores, causing his pulse to increase. "Your magical consent is sufficient."

Crashing outside of Abraxas' study jarred the men who's pricked fingers were moments from meeting. Painful, though it was, to detach himself from his Lord, the urge to protect him was far greater. A robed figure all but fell into the room.

"Lord Voldemort!" panted the repugnant shoe-licker, Amycus Carrow, as he interrupted the private audience.

Abraxas held no qualms training his wand steadily at the expendable imbecile. He took a breath, but a steadying hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Amycus, who have you brought before me? The time for my audience has passed."

Lines appeared along the younger man's cheeks as trails of sweat riveted through dust from the cellars. Moving his weight from one foot to the other with indecision, Amycus then knelt before Lord Voldemort. His Lord knew, he always knew.

"A girl, she breached the wards somehow. Alecto and I were in the East Wing..."

"The honeymoon suites? Those were sealed years ago."

Amycus continued on, only acknowledging Abraxas had spoken with a flicker of his gaze. "We were preparing rooms for the guests from Ukraine, My Lord, and she was in the mirror."

The next words of protest died in Abraxas' throat.

His grip tightening, Tom leaned closer to his consort and asked the last question Abraxas wanted. "The pier glass? You affirmed it could not be activated?"

"My Lord, I assure you it cannot be the mirror. I would sooner forfeit my magic than withhold it from you."

Abraxas did not take notice of the lump of man waiting for further instruction. He leaned back further into Lord Voldemort's embrace, but the chill of rejection rushed his veins as the man, the god who'd almost been _his_ , swept from the room.

* * *

Astoria couldn't discern if it was the room, or only her vision that rocked like a boat at sea.

The air of the room was warmer than what she'd left...through the mirror, no less. She chided herself repeatedly at her own lack of self-preservation after encountering the shifting pier glass. Uncertainty gripped her as tightly as the _incarcerous_ spell around her arms, holding her in an ornate chair that was familiar, but she brushed the disturbing thoughts aside.

_Vertigo_ , she convinced herself. _I have vertigo and a house elf will certainly fetch me a potion for it_.

After calling the names of a dozen house elves she knew were within the Manor, the dread coiling tighter than the whale bone corset of her wedding gown, stark white in the gloom of the bedroom. This dread was another tone than her post-marital realization. A darker tone, reminding her of cobblestoned corridors and dodging hexes. The hooded figure who'd dragged her into whatever room of the Manor this was, nearly a duplicate of the suite she'd attempted to ensconce herself in, hadn't returned, but she swore she'd recognized the voice. Male, breathy with an onion tang, which fit into the puzzle seamlessly.

Amycus Carrow. A man, who was supposed to be incarcerated in Azkaban, another Pureblood forced into a Dementor's Kiss and lying catatonic in Azakaban, was in the Manor. His _incarcerous_ reached up to her throat, restricting her from speaking louder than a whisper. Calling the names of the house elves abraded her throat painfully, so she was certain calling for help or sounding an alarm would have far worse consequences.

The vertigo was worse than she thought.


	3. Part III

Tom's feet landed softly on the carpet at the foot of the stairs. The trip to the honeymoon suites was arduous, to say the least, in order to afford new couples a certain amount of privacy. But, if Amycus reached out to him directly, the visitor in the house was worth his immediate attention, and flight afforded him twice the speed of Abraxas who lagged many yards behind him.

One look at Abraxas, and Tom recognized the older man didn't feel the same course of distracting energy running through him. Tom could feel the wards of the Manor stretching out towards him like ghostly hands checking the temperature of water. Taking Abraxas's offer of familial partnership in order to strengthen their bond was taxing, but worth every side affect already plaguing him. Since his consort's wife fell ill to dragonpox a decade before, the Malfoy patriarch filled his days strengthening the Manor into a fortress, which drew Tom to it's solidified walls as the headquarters for the greatest coup the Ministry would never see coming. Bringing the patriarch on as companion was merely an added...perk.

Holding power in the Malfoy name would undoubtedly have dozens of unforeseen uses.

Another landing, and Tom entered the hallway to the honeymoon suites, and out-distanced himself from Abraxas, and the scrabbling leech Amycus. Two carved oak doors, locked at their center, stood unassumingly before the entrance to the suites.

Tom withdrew his yew wand to release Amycus's locking charm. Before the two Death Eaters could reach the same hallway, he'd closed the double doors behind him, using a much stronger charm than his follower had Clouds of dust moved in front of the window where moonlight streamed through, evidence of the cleaning interrupted by some girl.

Irritation steadily growing, Tom straightened the collar on the ceremonial robes flowing down to his ankles. Another set of doors between the sitting room and the bedroom blocked his path. With more flourish than he normally afforded himself, he waved his hands to bring them open with a bang.

White. Clouds of white stunned his vision. Gloom of midnight filled the halls before him and white spots filled his vision with the brilliance of sudden flare of light.

The pulling on his magic grew stronger, a sense of urgency, a compulsion scratching at his spine, the moment he saw the girl...woman bound to a chair before him. Tom met the girl, beautiful if he were honest with himself, gaze for gaze as he fought the tug towards her, even as her gaze pushed him back.

Interesting. Legilimency was not going to be simple with this one.

* * *

Astoria rolled her head back and forth to release the kink. Hours of practice at tea parties and books on her head did not compare to the feeling of being bodily tied to a chair for...Merlin only knew how long. She could not cast a _tempus_ easily or see a clock.

Her dress was blinding in the half light. The charms were wearing off, and the lace lightly scratched her arms instead of barely touching her skin, and she felt the bindings and whale bone of the corset strain against the ropes around her. So much pressure was making her dizzy.

Astoria closed her eyes to focus on her breathing, a ripple of relief starting at the base of her head and moving downwards to her pinched toes. Mild nausea abated, Astoria continued to breathe in and out slowly, so she could focus more attentively to her surroundings.

Thunderous bangs startled her, eyes flying open mid-meditation, the gossamer and taffeta of her gown flying around her in the artificial breeze.

The solid doors to the bedroom shuddered like a clothesline, struck by a passing hand, and the handles left dents in the wallpaper. As her breath returned to a normal pace, Astoria kept her mouth shut and her eyes wide to pick up each potentially life-threatening detail. The palm of her wand hand itched and she felt painful pressure on her arm as her hidden wand tried to slip down her sleeve, her magic working of its own volition to protect her from the formidable man before her.

He was very tall. Her addled brain managed to determine that was the most important detail. He would be harder to knock down with one kick; it would take at least two.

His arms were nearly long enough to rest against the doorframe, but he gathered himself up straight instead of leaning towards her, holding his wand carefully in his right hand, resting it on his folded arms. The stance was too relaxed.

Dark eyes caught and held her gaze once her wandering eyes made it to that focal point. Pressure more intense than the bindings and corset around her body pressed down on her psyche and she sucked in a breath with the power of it.

Her breath broke the silence of the room, and the doors' shuddering ceased. The wind from the doors was long past, and her dress settled around her waist and ankles once more, a throne of white. Though, from the way he watched her impassively, she wondered if this would double as her shroud.


	4. Part IV

Astoria expected dozens of scenarios to play themselves out rather swiftly, given her compromised position and the way the man stared at her, the way a panther stalks its prey. Training her face to stay impassive, relaxed, she openly watched him. There were no polite ways around staring down the person bursting through the doors of your prison, when the only other option was your reflection in the pier glass.

"Welcome, my lady."

Well. She hadn't expected that; words draping gossamer fine threads over her nerves as they slipped between dark lips. Lips that were slightly chapped and...yes there, even in her distraction she could see the marks around his lower lip from teeth marking the soft flesh. Odd, for a man who exuded an unmistakable aura of control and raw power.

"I'd feel more welcome if I weren't strapped to a chair." She pushed her chest and arms against the ropes for emphasis, silently withstanding the increase to her discomfort.

"In due time," the man replied. Traces of amusement threaded through the cool exterior.

The sweep of the man's robes as he strode towards another chair mesmerized her, something that would make her governess weep joyously from the ease and grace, and the purpose, of each step. His movements were lithe and almost...sexual.

No. Absolutely not. Her husband might be a poof of a wizard without an ounce of attraction to her, and she might be feeling the effects of a fresh marriage bond itching at her more forcefully than the ropes around her, but it did not excuse her weakness. She still had a chance to convince Draco to give her a child if she could just get back to him from...wherever in the Manor she'd wound up.

As she watched the man sit and stare at her, her conviction she was suffering vertigo began to wane.

As she traced the edges of his jaw, the cut of his hair, and the way his fingers traced his yew wand, the conviction all but vanished. Denial flooded the empty space it left behind.

"What is your name and what are you doing in my Manor?" she demanded.

"I should ask you the same thing." His eyes were cold, but the amusement in his voice grew stronger, like she was an unwanted kitten left on his stoop he hadn't decided what to do with yet. "But, I forget my manners as a host, even to an intruder like you. I am Tom Riddle."

Her stomach dropped through the floor, her voice an incredulous whisper. "Liar."

"Yes, I am a liar, but my name _is_ Tom Riddle."

"It's treasonous to impersonate You-Know-Who," she snapped. She needed to get out of these bindings, a pain potion for her head, and an Auror to arrest this man. In that order.

The lip, with impressions of teeth still visible, curled delicately. Astoria watched impassively, thinking through every action she had available to her to get out of this, when she realized the marks on his lip were going the wrong way for his own teeth to have caused them.

"My lady," he purred, "You are gravely mistaken."

Dread continued to pour in over the walls of her resolve, a distracting trickle threatening to spill over into a downpour. "You can't be Tom Riddle. He's dead." She hated how small her voice sounded, the lack of conviction.

A piano string, strained from overuse and cold, snapped behind the eyes of her captor, and he was on her faster than she could blink.

With one jerk, his hand ghosting over her jaw, never touching but close enough she could feel the heat of his fingers drilling into the cold of her flesh, he turned her head. Two ends of a magnet, pushing against each other and shaking when they came too close to touching, his knees trembled as they pressed into her chair. The tumult, the snowball of doubt deeply rooted in her gut and weaving towards her spinal cord, allowed him a fissure into her mind.

She saw the blur of memories. Elation as she walked down the aisle; the feeling of Draco's clammy hands in hers beneath the open gazebo; a hushed celebration with their family afterwards on the grounds of the Manor. But he dug his heels in deeper.

Astoria was transported, dragged, backwards in her memory towards her years at Hogwarts, and like a train skipping the tracks and derailing, the man who claimed to be Tom Riddle slammed into a memory so benign she couldn't recognize it immediately. The library, piles of books around her as she and a few others in her year worked on a Potions project for Slughorn in her fourth year. Daphne recited names from the ratty log book found in the shelves of the Slytherin dorm rooms, a list of every person ever invited to every Slug Club party on campus, and pictures where available. One she'd gazed at for several long seconds glittered up at her, smirking before leaving the edge of the photo.

Tom Riddle.

"Tom Riddle," she breathed, her eyes snapping into focus, a pair of dark eyes monitoring each atom of her being as she breathed in and out.

"Astoria Malfoy." His breath was sweet with a hint of decay, like an overripe plum left in the sun too long. "Your marriage-"

Her first instinct was to scoff, but she restrained herself to only pinching her lips together tightly. At his proximity, he noticed, and licked his lips in reply. He'd dragged her through the last four hours of her life for a second miserable time, the crash of disappointment as jarring as the first time it happened. His hand still trembled and floated over her skin; close but not touching, coursing over her shoulders and down her arms. She wasn't sure if her body was going numb from cold and loss of circulation or if he truly were loosening the bindings.

"Your marriage, Mrs. Malfoy," he began again, the decay in his breath unfurling into the distinct scents of whiskey, ashes, and melting wax, "tugs at my soul, and grates it along broken glass until I cannot _stand it_."

The layer of air between her arms and his hands solidified, a palpable and malleable thing acting as armor between them. Who was it really protecting?

"I, Mrs. Malfoy," he said, rolling the name along his tongue like a sin, "am Lord of this Manor. Your arrival disrupted the seal, my consummation, and I daresay we have a similar goal. You see...I want to live forever and command the respect of the wizarding world. You," here he paused to test the barrier, caressing it like spider silk stuck to his robes, searching for purchase, "wish your line to continue in tandem with the pure blood of the Malfoys."

Astoria sucked in a desperate breath, the sound rattling around in her throat and lungs, sharp and sudden. She felt the crystalline shell of her resolve ring with a clear bell tone as his words landed endless blows against it, threatening to shatter.

Tom leaned further towards her, and she could feel the gusts of his breaths against her neck, shallow and rapid. His lips trembled against the ridges of her trachea, her increased pulse lifting her skin up to brush his lips with each beat of her heart.

_Sin sin sin sin sin_

He was gulping the air from her, raking himself through her to steal it all and siphon it through her pores, her blood; anywhere she had oxygen he tore it away. "An heir for the ages, Astoria."

Facing up towards the ceiling she pulled another lungful of air into her, breaking the top of the waves filling her mind. That voice, promising power and sin without shame, hit every note of her name to cut into her and shatter the crystal within in a discordant explosion. Words and feeling sloughed from her body as the barrier between his trembling fingers and her shaking bones evaporated, and she succumbed to the feeling of sweaty silk of a man's shirt on her brow, and tulle scratching her thighs.

Promises scripted into her calves, psalms were planted in the dip between her breasts, and pleading words of return and reign crowned her brow and decorated her neck.


	5. Finis

Draco's head shot up, his head buried in his hands, when the double doors of the honeymoon suite crashed open with enough force to ruffle his styled hair. His knees were cramped from the pressure his elbows placed on them for the last half hour, but still he stood up from his chair as Astoria entered the room. The moment was too swift; he became lightheaded, his joints nearly giving way beneath him, as the ethereal image of his wife swam before him.

Astoria stood with her hands clasped in front of her, resting atop the remnants of the shell of her wedding dress. Only the silk of the undergarments were intact; partially, upon further inspection, the duplicate woman before him solidifying to one as his vision stopped swimming. A slit in her slip, which he was certain the seamstress didn't create, coursed up her thigh to the top of her hip bone. Draco noted her knickers were notably missing, and where the garter should have been cupping her thigh, a trail of love bites remained.

Millions of questions flew through his brain before it fizzled to a stop, the sight of teeth marks on his wife driving him mad, but he could not fathom the origin.

"What in the hell is that?" he whispered, pointing to her leg, presented boldly with a perfect bevel.

Releasing the pile of white lace and taffeta to the nearest chaise, Astoria provided Draco the daintiest of smiles, a look that oozed pity; a cobra apologizing before it snapped up a mouse.

"Oh, Draco," she said through a cloud of gentle laughter. Walking to him, she rested one palm against his cheek for a moment, her slightly shorter stature turning her head demurely, before drawing back and tapping it a few times, with more force than necessary. "Nothing I can't handle."

Dumbstruck, Draco had the distinct impression someone had stolen the largest slice of cake beneath his nose, the one with the most flower-shaped frosting pieces. He was distinctly unaccustomed to it, and found the notion both foul and intrusive.

Watching the sashay of her hips, Draco felt cold fingers of regret move up his lungs, crystallizing his breath, eyes never leaving the man-made garter on her leg.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a/n] I am indebted to 'turbulenthandholding', 'chiseplushie', and 'colubrina' for this fic. Without them, it would not exist. After discussing on tumblr several "Cursed Child" spoilers that may or may not have included allusions to who Scorpius's father really was...well it devolved into this. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it and I appreciate your feed back.


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